


His name is Thomas

by ijustlookatpictures



Category: Little Women (2019), Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Amy March is better than Jo March I am willing to fight anyone on that, Angst and Tragedy, Breakdown of friendship, Child Loss, F/M, Family, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:09:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustlookatpictures/pseuds/ijustlookatpictures
Summary: Some would regard it as a travesty after such a period of turbulence; others would regard it as a reparation of a life that had been so easily led.In which Laurie and Amy experience a life-changing tragedy and a near thirty-year-old friendship dissolves into tatters, in the aftermath.
Relationships: Theodore Laurence/Amy March, Theodore Laurence/Josephine March
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	His name is Thomas

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that this story describes the journey Laurie and Amy go through when their son is stillborn.
> 
> Can we all agree on the fact that Amy March almost agreed to marry a man she did not love at the expense of her own happiness and freedom, in exchange for ensuring that her family were provided for, thus allowing her sisters to go and live the lives they chose in process? That sacrifice proceeded to go completely ununderstood and unacknowledged and had it not been for Laurie stating that he loved her then she would have married Fred Vaughn? Yes? Thank you. Goodnight.
> 
> T/W: Descriptions of grief, stillbirth etc. 
> 
> I just can't write anything happy, apparently!

'Must My Lady insist upon carting herself and our child through the godforsaken countryside when there is a rainstorm brewing?!' Laurie inquired at the top of his lungs, grinning towards his wife situated at the top of the hill, overlooking her home town.

Glancing towards the source of her interruption, Amy beamed at the sight of him scrambling up the embankment to towards her, as fast as his legs would carry him. She eagerly tossed her sketchbook and pencils to her side, favouring to watch her less than nimble husband attempt to climb what he regularly described to be 'the local mountain', instead. She tutted gamely at him, shaking her head as she watched him slip. Even at seven months pregnant, her athleticism far surpassed his.

'Regrettably, My Lord, the artiste within me must go wherever she is summoned!' She answered, before cackling at the way he rolled his eyes. 'Our child comes along for simply no other reason than she prefers me to you! She has forgotten who you are, seeing as you have been away for so long! '

Clambering over a rock, Laurie let out his own bark of laughter. 'Whatever such a ridiculous notion!' He rebuked. 'For I am the most likeable gentleman in the whole of the modern world - therefore, nobody could ever forget m... AHH!' 

Laurie screamed out, suddenly disappearing from view. The end of his statement falling lost to the bright afternoon air as his overzealous footing atop a mossy cairn of stones sending him cascading down the damp hill, the muddy sole of his boot having given way beneath him.

'LAURIE!' Amy cried terror-stricken, struggling to her feet as quickly as her heavily pregnant stomach would allow before gathering her skirt and hurrying to the edge of the incline, with the dexterous ease a lifetime of having grown up within the peaks and troughs of Concord afforded her.

She spotted him instantly, crumpled in a muddy heap, not ten feet below. His grey trousers thickly adorned with mud from ankle to buttocks. His coat soaked with moss and pebbles, his dark curls skewed in a tuft from the back of his head.

He let out a despondent cry of revulsion, shaking out his mud drenched hands as she cackled raucously at the sight. Having established the damage existed solely to the seat of his freshly laundered trousers, not to the impending Father of her child.

Gripping her bump, Amy doubled over on herself. Her entire body contorting with sobs of laughter as she took in the sight of her husband beneath her, before being forced to look away. For she was simply unable to bear the sight, for it did nothing more than paralyse her with staggering hysteria. 

Not even the fact that they had been apart for the best part of two weeks as he travelled for business, nor how much she had yearned for him, was enough to quell the hilarity she took from his misfortune.

'AMY!' He objected, struggling to regain his poise as he attempted to clamber back up the incline, yet failing more spectacularly each time he attempted it. With a growl of fury, he abandoned the venture. The successful grip he had previously held now undermined by the copious amount of dirt trapped within the tread of his shoes.

'Laurie... are... you... alright?!' She managed, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes as she managed to heave lungfuls of air into her hysterical body.

'My... pride is not!' He surmised, shaking out a bootful of mud, which descended her into another sobbing fit of laughter.

'You... you were so... and then you... with the...' She gasped inaudibly, clutching at her protruding stomach with one hand as she pointed to her floundering husband below her, with the other.

'My Darling, perhaps you could give some indication to how in God's name you got up there without scrabbling up this muddy hill like a half-crippled cat!' He enquired, doing his best to wipe down his dirty clothes.

Amy gasped a final time, moving her finger towards the less steep incline beside her. 'The path...' She managed. 'Why on earth did you not just use the path?!' 

Laurie paused, his face contorting with confusion before he pointed outrageously. 'There's a path?!' He demanded.

She cackled gleefully, nodding. 'If My Lord would perhaps be good enough to swim to his left..' She directed, miming the way he struggled against the glistening blanket of mud. 'He shall come across a gravel path - it leads upwards to where his beloved wife and heir to his vast fortune shall be waiting!' 

He kissed his teeth. Shaking his head frustratedly, before breaking into a grin.

'To my left?' He repeated, unable to refrain from joining in on her hysteria. Amy nodded in affirmation, letting out another bark of laughter in response.

Laurie rolled his eyes, failing to hide his own good humour as he began his pilgrimage westward, in the hope of finding the referenced path. He remained half-convinced such a trail was a figment of his heavily pregnant wife's imagination. Yet chose not to query such matters, having drawn over half a year's experience as to where his unwanted impertinence landed him in her graces at such times.

'Don't be too long!' She called lightly as she retook her seat, reaching for her pencils once more. 'The tide draws in soon!' 

He threw his arm up dismissively in response, shaking yet more mud from his trousers as he ventured.

A full ten minutes had passed by the time he reached her summit. Having successfully sought out the mirage-like trail that led safely up the hill. She had been right on such matters; then again she usually was. Not that he would ever admit, as such.

Amy glanced up at the sight of him, her face flushing in delight at his presence, before she descended into another fit of laughter. 

'You look _ridiculous_!' She cackled, pointing to his drenched, stained outfit.

'I look - _heroic_.' He amended, holding out a theatrical arm of chivalry towards his wife. 'Here I am, attempting to come to the aid of my wife and unborn child, yet she chastises me for it.'

Amy beamed. 'My Boy, is it not that _I_ , your heavily pregnant wife and Mother of your spawn, came to _your_ aid?' 

Laurie clicked his tongue, disparagingly. 'Knowing you, you most likely wet the ground so that I would flounder.'

She let out a raucous laugh as he took his seat beside her, brushing off his dirty knees. 

'You are not wrong.' She agreed, leaning forward to kiss him. 'We have missed you.' She murmured, burying her nose into the crook of his clean patch of shoulder. 'Even if you look like a fleeing madman.'

'A fleeing madman who is irrevocably in love with the pair of you and will do anything to make you happy, including making an ass of himself if that should amuse you, My Love.' He corrected, pressing a series of kisses into her hairline before wiping his right palm against the picnic blanket beneath him, before laying the clean hand gently over her protruding stomach.

'How was New York?' She asked, sinking herself into the warmth of her husband after their nearly fortnight-long separation.

'Intolerable, without you.' He answered, wrapping his grubby arm around her waist and drawing her securely against him. Exactly where he liked her; right where she belonged. 'Your sister sends her love.' He added, stroking a tendril of hair from her face.

'Are she and Friedrich well?' She asked, reaching to grab a handful of his lapel as she pulled him ever closer. 'You're getting my lovely frock dirty.'

He nodded. 'Very.' He answered. 'Don't worry, I'll simply buy you a new one.' 

She beamed into his shoulder, pressing a kiss in gratitude against the fabric of his coat.

'She is finalising the terms of her book and then it shall go to print.' He continued, glancing out onto the skyline of the village they called home. When they were not travelling, that is.

'How queer.' She murmured, thoughtfully. 'Of all the reams of stories Jo has ever written it is our tale that makes the publishers.'

'Want to know what I think?' He asked, lowering his gaze back towards her.

'I'm sure you shall tell me, regardless.' She mused, sitting up to face him, before poking her tongue, in good humour.

He smirked, yet chose not to bite at her teasing. Instead, leaning down towards her until his lips were settled against her ear. 'It sells so well because you're in it.' He whispered as though it were a precious secret between them both. He pressed a bemused kiss to her temple, as she let out a cry of delight.

'Oh, Mr Laurence, how you appease me.' She responded, resting her head back against his shoulder. 'We have pie for dinner.' She added, after a moment. 'Steak - your favourite... with mashed potatoes.' She gazed longingly towards their house, a minute dot against the countryside.

'That sounds most agreeable.' He murmured, longingly. 'New York has none of the tastes of home.'

'Ice cream cake, for afters.' She continued, smiling to herself at the notion.

' _Your_ favourite.' He surmised.

'The _baby's_ favourite.' She countered, objectionably. 'I am but a vessel to meet her whims... if she wishes to have ice cream cake - what kind of Mother would I be to turn her down?'

'Quite.' He grinned. 'I must thank Judith.' He murmured, pressing his nose to her hair and inhaling deeply, before kissing her. 'For going to the effort.'

Amy scoffed, furiously, tearing herself from her husband's advances. 'Like Judith could make such a pie!' She objected. 'It was I, your fat, bumbling wife who was up at dawn braising the beef - I even cut myself!' She raised her finger towards his face, woundedly.

'You're not fat.' He interjected, before taking her finger in his mudstained hand with a smile, examining it closely. He raised it to his lips, placing an apologetic kiss against her battle wound. 'You went to all that effort for me?' He asked, softly. 

'Of course.' She answers, with an air of remiss. 'Such meals taste far superior when they are made with love... and Judith will never love you as I, no matter how handsomely she's paid.'

Lowering his face against the dainty floral print on her dress, he kissed her shoulder lightly resting his head against the warmth of her skin.

'Whatever did a beast such as I do to deserve a beauty like you?' He murmured, tenderly.

She beamed, raising a hand to the back of his curls, scratching gently at the nape of his neck. 'You buy me pretty things.' She answered, with such earnesty, that he threw his head back at laughed.

'How I have missed you... it is good to be home.' He mused, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before wrapping his arm around her, once more. 'Thank you very much indeed for my pie.'

He stretched out his legs before him, tutting lightly at his muddied knees before turning back to her.

'How are you, My Love?' He murmured, surveying her face in a scrutinising manner as he searched her features for any unspoken ails. 'You look tired.' He commented.

'Ravishing, you mean?' She amended with a grin, causing him to click his tongue in response. 'I am, this week's been hard.' She continued, her smile faltering as she absently raised a finger to the dark lines beneath her eyes. 'Your daughter appears to be nocturnal... From the moment I lay down, she is ready to dance the night away... I don't think either of us have slept a wink since you've been gone.' 

'Well, how about you allow me to escort you both back home and I can show you the presents I have brought you back?' He paused, a gamely look toying on his face. 'Perhaps I should say wheeled back?' 

Amy's features contorted, as she let out an overjoyed squawk at such a notion. 'Did you get the baby carriage?' She demanded. 'The cream one?! From...'

'From Lord and Taylor?' He checked, pulling a face of contemplation. 'You know, My Darling, I cannot quite recall... perhaps you could remind me, is that on Ladies' Mile? I appeared to have spent rather a lot of my time there, you see.' 

She squealed, grabbing his lapels.

'I must write and thank the management.' He murmured, thoughtfully. 'For there are so many ways a shop-girl can assist a gentleman with when he has his wife's measurements.'

'Take me home!' Amy begged, scrambling to collect her drawing supplies. 'We want to go home. Your daughter and I wish to return home immediately and I am prepared to swim.'

Laurie threw his head back, letting out a delighted bark of laughter. 'You are still so convinced, they are a girl?' He asked, rubbing his hand over her belly, again. 

'Of course.' She answered. 'For there is space for only one Lord in my life and I fear, for your sake, that should this child not be a girl, then you sir, shall be thrown to the dogs!' 

'Any dogs in particular?' He asked, helping his wife to her feet. 'For I fear Jack and Pippy would do nothing beyond than lick me to death.'

'They're very intelligent poodles, I think you'll find, Mr Laurence.' Amy insisted, watching as he gathered her remaining belongings from the wet grass. 'For they amply defend your daughter and I, in your absence.'

'Well then!' Laurie amended, his hand slipping around her waist as they began their descent, the blanket rolled beneath his arm, her pencils and sketch book tucked safely in his grasp. 'Perhaps I should leave you more often.'

'Oh, My Lord, I fear our hearts would not survive it!'

'Whose?' He asked. 'Yours and the Poodles?'

'No - mine and your daughter's!' 

* * *

She was wrong, as it turned out. 

Their first child was not the daughter she had envisioned, with fair hair and light eyes like her own. A girl with whom she vowed to vie for her husband's attention.

No, he was instead born a boy, with ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. Exquisitely petite, just like his Mother.

He was to be called Thomas, after his Father's Father. A kind man who had known the importance of love, at the expense of all else. He was to bear the middle name Giovanni, the maiden name of his Father's Mother. A beautiful woman who had coveted to give her son all she could in their time together, as short as that had been.

Such names were apt, his Mother surmised. For their son was entirely the image of his Father, a Laurence through and through. From his button nose and dark crop of hair to the mottled birthmark running along his right shoulder. A mirror image.

She was wrong on a second matter, too. Every worry she had held of there not being enough love for two men in her life had ebbed away from the moment her child had entered the world. Her heart having quadrupled in size the moment she first laid her eyes on him. She adored him with every ounce of her being and how could she not?

For he was perfect in every conceivable way.

Their first child, a boy, Thomas.

Every single inch of him was astoundingly, utterly perfect. Save the fact that he was born sleeping.

Had a doctor been present, perhaps there was something that could have been done.

However, there had been no need to call for one. Not since there had never been so much as an indication of the child being in any ill health or distress.

It had been the perfect pregnancy, in fact. His Mother, healthy and in her early twenties, still having been able to join in on the vigorous game of Puss, Puss in the Corner at her niece and nephew’s sixth birthday party, not a fortnight before. 

Instead, the only assistance that had been available had been the helping hands of her own Mother and sister. Both of whom were aptly versed in the art of childbirth, less so in the recognition of the placement of the umbilical cord. Which had somehow become wrapped around the baby's neck during the course of the labour.

No, there had been no indication that the son of Theodore and Amy Laurence should have been any other than perfect.

He still had been; to them.

_‘Get him on her chest!’_

Amidst the distressed phrases cried across the room in the immediate moments following the arrival of her precious son, they were the words which stuck with her the most.

For it had been such frantic advice given by her sister before suddenly her new-born child had been thrust upon her. The pair still yet to be separated from the offensive cord which was cause for such panic in the first place. 

The silence of the child had been deafening from the moment he had arrived. A complete contrast to when Meg had given birth.

Daisy, the eldest by ten minutes, had screamed from the second she had appeared, red-faced and writhing. Demi had followed afterwards and the pair and screamed and wailed until their parents complained of bleeding ears from the din.

Yet Amy’s child remained silent. Limp in the arms of his Aunt and Grandmother who continued to virtually fling the infant between one another, in whatever vain attempts they could think of to get him crying.

Amy had watched, frozen in place on the bed. Still mostly naked, bleeding and in agony. Yet none of that mattered, not as she watched her sister do everything humanly possible to draw any signs of life from her soundless nephew.

‘Why’s he not making any noise?’ Amy had demanded, over and over. ‘Why isn’t he crying?!’

Her cries had gone wholly ignored, as the women at the foot of her bed had worked frantically.

Ignored. Over. And over. And over.

'MOTHER!' She had screamed, the formality of such a statement finally drawing a little attention towards her.

‘It can take a little time, sometimes... don't worry, darling!’ Her Mother had insisted before rushing from the room and descending the stairs three at her time, calling desperately for her husband.

It had felt like hours. Lying in her beautifully large mahogany bed, in her beautifully decorated bedroom, upon her fresh linen towels, the sun streaming through her beautiful French window, casting a warm glow from her beautifully manicured lawns. At one moment, she cast her gaze towards the crib beside her. A stunning item, made of white wicker and ordered directly from Paris. 

Theodore Laurence would only ever hear of having the best for his wife and child.

Yet to Amy, at that moment, it all felt so polluted. It felt cheap. Vulgar. Fetid. Worthless. For none of it meant anything; not a single thing.

She thought of their first visit to the Hummels, all those Christmases ago. Remembering how destitute they had been, with biting snow and blistering wind forcing its way through cracks in the timber of their log cabin.

Cries from empty bellies and the trembles of icy bones had echoed around the small room. A meagre fire spluttering in the hearth as Mrs Hummel had tried desperately to split two medium-sized potatoes six ways. For six stomachs.

Because she had had five mouths to feed, in addition to her own. Five needy mouths, of five healthy children. Who had grown and thrived amidst the hardships of their primitive existence. The five Hummel children, poor and unprivileged as they had been, continued to cry.

Why, in the name of all that was good and holy, could her baby not do the same?

She would have swapped every item, she thought. Every jewel, every silk, every indulgence. She would have swapped everything she owned to swap place with Mrs Hummel. For if only she, her child and her husband could have had a poorly insulated log cabin to call their own, perhaps, just perhaps... everything their son would have been alright.

Amy had known all along, she later realised, that he was never going to wake. Known all along, despite her sister’s proclamations to the contrary.

‘Talk to him.’ Meg had urged, her hand continuing to move in rhythmic, firm strokes down her nephew’s back. A back so small, it barely ran the expanse of her hand. ‘Talk to him, my love, he’s waiting for the sound of his Mamma’s voice. He knows you.’

Amy had known that tone of voice, all too well. The calm, composed and collected front that her eldest sister so easily adopted during a time of crisis. The ‘Mother Hen’ within her easily stepping out in protection of her ailing chicks.

It had been the octave of her sister’s voice and the lack of interference from her Mother that had solidified the realisation. That he would not be waking up.

Yet Amy had reached for him, all the same. The desperation in her own voice, agonisingly prevalent. For when she thought about it, there was no way she could lose her child. Not when said baby was the child of a man like Theodore Laurence. A survivor to his core.

He had felt warm beneath her touch, fragile and delicate, like a baby bird. A creature to be worshipped and protected. One all too perfect for a world, such as this.

‘Hello, little one.’ She breathed, reaching to wrap her arms around him, her skin still drenched in the rapidly cooling perspiration leftover from her exhaustive labour. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

She pressed a kiss to his hair, downy tufts tickling her nose as she tried to cradle him. Meg’s vigorous rubbing proving almost too much of an intrusion to their interaction.

Almost. 

Amy spoke as though they were the only souls in the world. Talking to him of her hopes and dreams. Of the adventures they would have together, of the things that she would teach him and the places they would explore, of the love she shared with his Father, of the love they were so ready to share with him.

Of the man she imagined him to become.

Yet, despite her best of intentions, such topics proved to be of fruitless use to her new son.

‘Get Laurie.’ Amy murmured her voice low, her breaths shallow as she kissed the head of her baby and gazed into his perfectly small face.

‘Amy, is that…’ Her Mother began, having had returned to her bed-chamber and undertaken the task of cleaning up the wake of her daughter's labour, thus severing the fateful cord which had bound them together.

The end of her sentence fell silent, however, as Meg interrupted her with a wave of her hand.

Not the one that continued to move ceaselessly down the back of her silent nephew, leaving a scarlet indentation over his delicate skin from the force with which she worked. But the one she had used to periodically wipe away the tears that had crept down her own cheeks. The resignation so delicately leaking against her dogged insubordination of accepting the inevitable.

‘Go and fetch him, Marmee.’ Meg insisted, smiling encouragingly towards her sister. ‘He has his son to meet. Perhaps, this little chap is waiting for his Father.’

As Amy met her eyes, within them, she later realised, she saw nothing but hope. And for a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to share her sister's furious belief.

Imbibing just a shred of the vehemence that her sister was emitting. The innate stubbornness that was Margaret March when it came to her family.

This child _would_ breathe. She had said this child would breathe and he would. For they had lost too much, already. They had experienced too much grief than to lose another member of their family. Especially one so important.

The bounding creak of familiar footfall sounded, not a minute later. Her husband launching himself up their staircase in such haste, that it was almost like he had transported himself from their parlour to the landing. For it must have been some kind of record for a man to move as quickly as he in such a short space of time. Then again, desperation did a many manner of things to a person.

There was barely a rap on the bedroom door before it flung open. He had never quite mastered the finesse of patience, her husband.

In all the years she had known Laurie, never could Amy recall a time he had been equally as silent. Nor did she remember, him ever looking as harrowed.

His curls were wild, sticking out from all angles here he had undoubtedly shoved them from his face. His sleeves sat forced to his elbows, looking like the buttons had torn completely away. His shirt was untucked, necktie long abandoned. His expression completely lost.

For it was unwaveringly clear that the news of his silent child had already been delivered.

There was something about the uncharacteristic fragility of her husband that allowed Amy to remain stoic, just for that final moment. 

‘There is someone here who wishes to meet you.’ She directed quietly, after a moment’s pause, holding a hand out towards him. As though she were gently beckoning a timid tog or a frightened child to her bedside, not a 26-year-old man who had started the day expecting to become a Father. ‘Someone of much _greater_ importance than we two.’

She screwed her eyes shut, pressing yet another kiss against his feathery hair, before laying her fingers gently over Meg’s hand. Stilling it.

She had needed Laurie in the room for that, for if he had seemed like there had been a hope, she would have allowed it to continue. Yet he hadn't and he was not a stupid man, her husband.

‘Amy.’ Meg interjected, stiffly, her voice wavering as she spoke.

Amy, steadfast to her core, shook her head. Finally allowing a tear to drip from her eye.

‘My darling, he’s had enough.’ She surmised, reaching around to cradle her child beneath his bottom as she lifted him warmly against her chest.

Allowing him to doze there, just for a while.

‘You have done all that can be done.' She added, nodding at her desperate looking sister with a level of gratitude she did not think Meg would ever quite understand. 'I think he would like some time to rest before we…’ She clenched her eyes shut once again, a gasp falling from her chest before she managed to continue. ‘Before we make any further arrangements.’

There was a nod, she supposed, some acceptance of her statement. Yet the intricacies went unnoticed from behind the lids of her burning eyes. All she was focused on was holding her baby in her arms, protecting him from the world... whilst she still could.

She felt her sister press an affectionate kiss against her forehead, unable to ignore how apologetic and tear ridden it was in its delivery. Then there was a dip of the mattress as she left and the familiar warmth of her husband taking the seat, beside her.

Upon the gentle click of her bedroom door softly closing, she finally braved her eyes open. Raising her gaze up to the lost expression of her husband. 

Whilst her face ached with her unexpressed agony, she forced a smile.

‘Your son, My Lord.’ She murmured, holding their child out for him to see properly for the first time.

For a single, minute moment, terror ravaged within her at the prospect that Laurie would instantly rise from the bed. Turning his back, simply unable to accept him. Because the desolate expression he wore looked appeared it was almost too painful for him to even bare at a glance towards the baby in her arms, let alone hold him.

Then again, he was not that kind of man, her Laurie. Never once had he allowed her to face a storm alone and, in no way, did he seem intent on starting now.

She watched as he braved a terrified glance towards their child, as though he were expecting a monster. Yet he found none, realising, he was instead, gazing down into the face of their son.

His face contorting with agony as he let out a gentle smile. He pressed his own hand over Amy's that lay cradling their baby's back, intertwining their fingers together as he rubbed his thumb over her wedding ring.

‘Our son.’ He amended, his voice overwhelmed with emotion. Keeping the fingers of one hand threaded between his wife’s, he reached to embrace her with the other, pulling her tightly against him as he kissed her forehead, keeping his lips pressed warmly against her skin.

She felt his breath stutter against her, as though he were fighting to hold the weight of the world within his lungs.

'May I hold him?' He managed after a moment, backing not an inch away from her side as he held out his hands. 'For it seems awfully unfair that you get to hog such a precious creature all to yourself.'

She nodded, the warmth of a gasp held somewhere in the expanse of her chest as she allowed the grip she held on him to loosen. There would not have been another person in the world to whom she would have given such a gift.

With a tenderness that she did not know her husband to possess, she watched as he took their baby into his arms. Exactly as they had practised on the doll they had borrowed from Daisy.

He cradled him to his front, reaching deftly to his side for the pile of towels which lay awaiting. With an inexplicable seeming ease for a man who had never held a baby before, he wrapped it around him.

'Far better.' He breathed, swaying ever so gently as he rocked him adoringly. 'Nice and warm, now.'

Slowly, he stilled. Bending down to kiss his forehead, before pressing his fingertips over his half-open eyelids, rendering him now looking entirely as he were asleep.

Amy watched as he kept his head bowed, cheek resting longingly over his son's forehead before he straightened up. Softly, he passed him back. Returning the baby back to his Mother's arms; where he belonged.

'I thank you from the bottom of my heart.' He murmured, reaching to run his hand along his wife's arms and shoulders as she cradled her son back against her chest.

He leant forward, pressing another kiss to her forehead before reaching back down to tuck the towel away from his face.

'For he is, in my humble opinion, the most perfect child who has ever lived. Just as he is.' He let out a stuttered breath, tears leaking down his face as he so desperately tried to hold his emotions in check. 'And because of you, I have the grace of calling him my own.' He let out the smallest smile, shuffling towards them both as he leant his head against hers.

The pair of them gazing longingly into the face of their firstborn child, a boy, Thomas.

'Our own.' He amended.

Whether it was the words he was speaking, his warmth and smell engulfing her or solely the face of the baby in her arms that caused Amy to begin to weep, she was unsure. All she knew was that once she had started, she was utterly positive she would ever be unable to stop. 

Her grief rushing from within her with such fervour, it was as though Cerberus himself had thrown open the gates of hell. Allowing with it, all of the arduous sufferings and torment from within to manifest into a cacophony of desolation, before settling into the lungs of the newly bereaved Mother.

For her son was dead and there was nothing that could ever be done to bring him home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read!
> 
> I would love to know what you think!


End file.
